


Interlude: Mother of Pearl

by K_dAzrael



Series: Femme!Jokester [5]
Category: Batman (comicverse), DCU - Comicverse, DCU Earth 3
Genre: D/s, F/M, Femdom, Sex Toys, Smut, Spanking, dub-con, mummykink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-06
Updated: 2010-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-05 21:58:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_dAzrael/pseuds/K_dAzrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Owlsie-pie, you and your one-track mind – this isn't an arch-nemesis thing, it's a kink thing..."</p><p>Owlman thinks he's in charge and ends up getting pwned, as usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude: Mother of Pearl

**Author's Note:**

> Technically comes after the events of For Great Justice! I just needed a pr0n fix. I won't write my stories in order, I won't *stamps foot*

Owlman is a control freak, and nowhere is this more obvious than in bed. He has a thing for excessive foreplay – the first few times she thought it was showing off, but now she realises he gets satisfaction from it. For him, sex isn't about anything as simple as physical stimulation, it's his partner's reactions he enjoys (even though it's not exactly altruism).

Right now, the blackout curtains are closed and the Jokester has no idea what time it is or how long she was asleep for. She hears the tell-tale clicks of the lock rotating – Owlman can pick it in the time it takes most people to fish the keys out of their pockets. She rolls onto her back and makes a sleepy sound, rubbing her eyes.

Owlman's silicone-soled boots don't make noise, but the boards beneath the carpet creak. under his weight. When she hears that he's reached the bedroom doorway she says "don't turn on the light."

He stands still for a moment and she knows he's staring at her with his night-vision lenses down. She must look weird all cat-eyed and green-tinged, but he's probably used to seeing people like that. She hears him move into the room and the rustles and metallic clicks which signal that he's taking off the suit.

He climbs into bed, kneeling over her. He's so huge – really – he's composed entirely of knotted muscles and scars beneath her hands as she runs them over his chest and shoulders. His body temperature must be the same as hers but the touch of his bare skin seems almost to burn. She wraps a leg around him and digs her heel into the small of his back; he grunts and bites her neck in retaliation. She laughs softly and licks and nips at his jawline to annoy him a little more; she can feel his dick getting harder against her inner thigh.

He dips his head to lick one of her nipples and then rolls it between his index finger and thumb. The callouses on the pads of the fingertips scratch faintly and make the nerve endings clustered there tingle madly; she hisses and arches her back.

"Did you think about me today?" he asks, his voice almost a growl as he slides down the bed, rubbing the stubble of his chin against the soft skin of her lower belly, against the long c-section scar there.

"Oh, of course. In fact, I have nothing better to do than think about you. I sit by the window, embroidering ornamental cushion covers, sighing to myself and saying 'ho hum, when will Mr. Owlsworthy come to call-ah-AAAL–'" the end of the smart remark trails off into a soft wail as the length of his tongue slithers across her clitoris.

"I meant, did you think about _this_ today?"

"Yeah... yeah..." she says, sounding a little breathless, swallowing. "By the way, 'Mr. Owlsworthy' is my new nickname for your penis."

He actually does growl this time – _and hey, wow_, she realises – the warm exhalation and vibrations feel incredible when his mouth is _right_ there against her outer labia. He turns his head and bites the inside of her thigh, saying: "I'm going to make you come so hard you pass out."

"Newflash – you're good, but you're not that good."

"You think?"

"I think– OH..."

Actually, for the next three minutes she doesn't think anything, except variations on 'oh!' and 'holy fuck!' as Owlman continues sucking and lapping at her like she's an ice-cream, holding her knees apart. Just when she thinks she's so close that she needs to be pushed over now, or go crazy(_-er ha!_), the flat of his tongue presses down on her clit, undulating as he simultaneously makes a humming sound low in his throat. She almost kicks him in the stomach as a powerful orgasm makes all the muscles in her lower body contract.

"I... um... okay..." she licks her lips, passing her hand over her face, her chest heaving. "Um..." she pinches her own arm thoughtfully, "still conscious. You lose."

'That was just round one," he says, then he kisses her deeply and sucks all the breath from her lungs as he withdraws. She gasps and he takes advantage of her momentary disorientation to flip her onto her front.

"Alright, alright, you're a big dominant bear, I get it," she says into the pillow, chuckling. She reaches into the bedside drawer for a condom to pass to him and then raises herself on her knees.

Owlman treats sex as if it's some sort of very serious martial art and he's always making disapproving sounds and correcting her posture: as he pushes down on her back to change the angle at which she's holding her hips she turns her face to the side and rolls her eyes, even though he can't see it in the dark. "When you're ready, stud."

He presses in slow, and he doesn't make a sound but she can feel the faint trembling in his thighs where they press against her own. He moves his hips fluidly, exerting control over the rhythm of his breathing – the Jokester likes to push back against him when he least expects it, chuckling to herself when it makes him suck in a sharp breath. Suddenly he changes tactics, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her upright, forcing her to seat herself in his lap to regain balance.

"Oh, okay, this is new..." she mutters, pressing her back to his chest and tilting her head against his shoulder.

"You need to spread your thighs wider."

"Aaa-ha... what are you, my pilates instructor?"

He bites her ear and says: "shut up and concentrate."

"Concentrate on what?–" just then Owlman does two things, one involving the shifting of his hips and the other his two middle fingers on her clitoris, and there's a sensation that's like teacup rides and fizzing, spinning catherine wheels and the chorus of Beethoven's ninth all rolled into one. When he lets go she actually slides off him and crumples in a heap. Whether it's really 'unconsciousness' is debatable, but even if the lights are on, there's definitely a period of half a minute when she's not exactly home.

"Wow," she says muzzily when her brain reboots. "I think you finally found the buttons that make me do my special move."

"Hnn. Putting pressure on the area behind the public bone stimulates some women," he replies, rolling off the bed.

"But they told me the g-spot was a myth!" she calls out, blinking against the sudden influx of light when he hits the switch by the door to the adjoining bathroom.

She turns over onto her back and furrows her brow quizzically when she hears the shower running. It takes a minute or two to get her limbs to work again so she can stand up, swaying slightly as she walks towards the other room. She leans against the doorframe and crosses her arms over her chest, watching him briskly rinsing the soap from his hair with his back turned.

"So, uh... what the hell, Big Bird? We're at thirty-love here – don't you want to at least finish the game?"

"Don't have time."

"Yeah? Where's the fire?"

Owlman steps out of the cubicle and wraps a towel around himself (which happens to be a rather fetching shade of lilac). "CSA business. Ultra-moron detected some resistance movement gathering strength in the Xinjiang province, western China."

"So you just stopped by on your way to manly-man bonding time crushing the infidels?"

"Something like that," Owlman sneers just like he always does after any mention of Ultraman and walks past her into the bedroom to start to dress.

The Jokester follows and flops back down on the bed, one arm behind her head. "'Dear Abbey... the guy I've been seeing would rather spend the weekend crushing the People's Army of China than hanging out with me. Do you think maybe he's not The One? Signed, Glum in Gotham'."

"Back in twenty-four, after the big blue baby has his fun..." Owlman says, pulling on the bottom half of his costume and reaching for the utility belt. "Don't cause trouble while I'm gone."

The Jokester presses her hand to her chest and pulls the kind of face that girls in period dramas make when their modesty has been outraged. "Who, _me_?"

*~*~*

In the vast hardware and building supplies department of the 'Macro-Mart' in the grim outskirts of town, Dr. Pamela 'Poison Ivy' Isley throws her body into the turn and skids around the corner into the next aisle while the Jokester shouts 'hard a' stern matey!' from her position crouching in the front of the cart, shading her eyes and pointing in the direction of the power tools.

"Why did I agree to help you with this again?" she asks, blowing a lock of red hair out of her face.

"Because we're going to... uh... 'liberate' some plants from the garden department later. Also, I'll treat you to some carrot cake at the coffee shop."

"I _do_ like carrot cake," Ivy agrees thoughtfully.

"Ooh, chains, stop here!" the Jokester exclaims, her green tail-coat flapping as she scrambles out of the cart to inspect the different thicknesses and alloys.

Ivy raises an eyebrow and puts a hand on her hip. "Do I even want to know?"

A male shopper in a baseball hat slows down as he passes, apparently torn between staring at the Jokester's scars and Ivy's denim-clad ass.

"Seriously?" Ivy appeals, holding out her arms, the unbuttoned sleeves of her soil-covered lumberjack shirt flapping. "Hey buster, you've got thirty-two teeth. You wanna try for none, or keep strolling?"

When the Jokester grins widely and holds up a length of chain near Ivy's cheek as if she's considering how it will look against the other woman's skin the man mutters "freaks!" and picks up his pace.

After they pay for the Jokester's bizarre selection of items, have cake, then mount a covert operation to save the neglected ferns of the garden department annex, and finally load everything into Ivy's mud-caked jeep, the Jokester throws herself into the passenger seat and says: "can we stop by that place near Cassius Street?"

"What place? Isn't Cassius in the middle of the red light district?"

The Jokester's eyes light up as she smiles her manic, unnerving smile and Ivy sighs in a put-upon fashion and shakes her head. "Forget I asked."

Twenty minutes later, Ivy drums her fingers on the wheel and sighs, cutting the idling engine. She watches the red and pink neons reflecting in the rain as it hits the windshield and waits; finally after another ten minutes the passenger door opens and the Jokester barrels in with two bags.

"Now are we done?" Ivy looks in the rear-view mirror at all the building supplies and yellowed ferns cluttering up the backseat.

"Just one more stop... Jonathan's place."

"Well, if whatever you've got planned for your weekend involves all that hardware back there, mind-altering chemicals and..." she glances into the bag on the Jokester' lap, "Astroglide... you can count me out."

*~*~*

When the Jokester gets home she looks in satisfaction at the empty apartment – she had most of the furniture and bits of costume she in this particular bolt hole cleaned out after Tweety-Pie left for his bromantic weekend. After she carries out the latest caper, she won't be able to use this place again. She might have to stay out of Owlman's way for quite a while, depending on how it plays out.

She sits cross-legged on the floor and spreads out her blueprints, then she starts to build, slipping into that familiar state of creative frenzy where she doesn't think, she just _knows_, instinctively, where things have to go and how they fit together.

When it gets too dark to see she realises it's time to go out on patrol. She fixes her make-up and dusts down the get-up, stretching her stiff limbs before heading out to where she keeps the trademark gadgets.

With no reported sightings of the Winged Menace more of the punks and small-timers decide to poke their heads out. She stops two muggings, a car-jacking and a corner-store robbery before bumping into Owlsie's new protégé, Rat-Eyes Drake's kid. This brat has no sense of humour; he doesn't appreciate the jokes about his panties... clearly the old man's standards are slipping – at least 'original flavour' Talon was good at the come-backs.

She gets in a few good shots with the mallet and scares him back to his nest. At four AM the crimes thin out and she returns to put the finishing touches to her creation. Then she sits down by the door and waits, zoning out into that freaky non-time she experiences when she's inactive.

*~*~*

Owlman opens the door and feels a sting in his neck, then as waves of blackness roll over him he hears the nasal twang of the familiar voice: "thank heavens honey, you're home! I have a surprise for you. Oh, but you look tired, why don't you just take a nap right there..."

When he comes to, he feels himself restrained. He struggles on instinct, but the cuffs are very tight. He's lying on something that feels like padded leather. He blinks and slowly becomes aware of his situation. He's chained to a... well, he's not sure exactly what – a Jokester original of some sort, but something like a dentist's chair... or more accurately, a gynecologist's – his legs are elevated and spread, bent at the knees and cuffed at the ankles. And he's naked.

"Welcome back," says the Jokester from somewhere behind him, obviously sensing his movements. "You know, you're heavy. Almost put my damn back out dragging you across the floor. Had a pulley system rigged though, so from there on in it was easy–"

"What the fuck is this?" he demands hoarsely, struggling to try the restraints again and finding them immovable.

"Oh, just a little something I put together while you were gone. You like it?"

"You'd better get me out of this in the next thirty seconds or you'll be so fucking sorry–"

"Uh-huh. Listen, why don't you ease up on the death threats for a minute? Give this set-up a chance is all I'm saying. It might be fun."

"What's your plan, clown? I didn't think torturing for information was your style."

"Torture? Oh no, no no no no! You and your –ha! – one-track mind. This isn't a arch-nemesis thing, it's a kink thing."

"What?"

"Hey, sorry to keep you waiting out there but it took me a while to decide on an outfit. I thought to myself, 'what will Owlsie-pie like best, police officer... nurse?' Then I realised you saw me as a nurse before, and I don't like to repeat myself... so I was like, 'ok, belly-dancer... air stewardess... french maid?' None of it seemed right so then I tried on a Superwoman costume... but I thought it might be too confusing for you. Then it hit me...'" he hears the sound of rustling fabric and the high-pitched burr of a zip being raised.

"GET THE FUCK OUT HERE AND UNCHAIN ME."

"Ok, ok, let me explain," the Jokester comes around the chair into his line of sight, perching herself on the nearby table next to a trunk. Her purple hair is curled and she's wearing an uncharacteristically demure costume (completely at odds with the haphazard clown make-up): a dark pencil skirt with a blouse of oyster-coloured silk tucked into it and a rope of pearls around her neck.

Pearls.

Oh, _Jesus_.

"Are you dressed up as _my mother_?"

"Not so much your mother, just a mother, you know? An archetype. Oh shh-shh-shh It's ok, Owlsie, really. You don't have to be embarrassed... lots of people have, _uh_, parental paradigms figuring into their fantasies... y'know, that German doc said–"

"Get me the fuck out of this right now clown or I swear this time I'll gut you–"

"No more bad words or death threats or mama spank," she tells him, wagging a finger and then hopping down and stepping between his thighs. He tries again to move his arms, but there's no play in the cuffs at all, they're fixed. "Hey now tiger, just relax." She lays her paint-stained hand on his abdomen rubbing in slow circles, a mockery of a soothing motion and her voice lowers to the level of an intimate murmur: "Oh, you're a _complicated_ man, I know, but I understand you. You like control – dictating who gets off and when. You like denying yourself, proving you're more than human and your desires aren't simple and, uh, _messy_ like other people's. Shh-shh, I know!" Her tone suddenly becomes more nasal and openly mocking: "oh, but _sweetheart_, the fact that you come to _me_ for it, well I mean...' she touches her fingertips to her chest and flutters her overly-mascaraed eyes, "I, who know you better than anyone! Didn't you think I'd work out what you really want? Hmm?"

He bares his teeth at her. "Just what does your fucked-up imagination think it is that I secretly want?"

"Hmm, well... loss of control. I mean that's gotta be a big sexy taboo for you." She holds up an index finger and adds, brightly: "how-eeever, more specific than that I had to guess... and since I know you won't tell me what's really going on in your bird-brain I've devised some, uh, special protocols and empirical measurements. So first of all, for tonight 'no' doesn't mean 'no', ok? Instead, the phrase 'I love sparkly unicorns' means 'no'. Got that? Right, and since you probably won't say 'yes' I came up with this..."

From her left sleeve she produces a pink ribbon with something gold and glinting suspended on it that jingles merrily.

"What is that?"

"It's a cat bell. I'm going to tie it around, uh, 'Mr. Owlsworthy' and when he gets excited I'll know."

Owlman unleashes another barrage of violent threats and colourful insults.

"Hey now – despite what some wag wrote on the inside of the bathroom stall in the Rogues Gallery Club, I do not and have never sold my fine white ass for profit. Now, sweetpea, this is really for your own good."

She plants her cold hands on his hips and dips her head, taking his soft dick into her mouth and swirling her tongue around it. He grunts as he feels himself start to harden; she chuckles low around him as she notices the reaction, pressing in and drawing back, sucking harder. She's never done this for him before – he has never asked her to, partly because he assumed she would be terrible at it. Hot, rolling jealousy suddenly flares in Owlman's gut – who has she done this for – Dent? Nygma? If those two freaks ever turn up again he'll kill them himself.

He has his eyes screwed shut in an attempt to retain control of his body's reactions, but all it does is make him focus more intensely on the sensations: the heat and wetness of her mouth, the tickling tendrils of hair brushing against his inner thigh. He opens his eyes and tries to raise his head, and no – that's worse, he thinks, groaning softly at the sight of her mouth stretching around him. He has fantasized about this – except in his imagination the power dynamic was reversed. Well, most of the time.

She lets him go with a slick sound and wipes at her mouth, stroking his dick with one hand a few times before winding the ribbon around the base.

"Ok, now we're in business. On to the Jokester's Big Box of Tricks." She moves to stand behind the trunk on the table and raise the lid; the hinged side faces him so he can't see what's in it. "Round 1. I'm going to show you a couple of things... let's see if any get a reaction." She begins to rummage through the trunk's contents, producing in succession a riding crop, a cat o' nine tails and a pair of black leather gloves. He tenses against the bonds again, trying not to respond to the mental image of her pulling those on to touch his bare skin.

His dick twitches and the bell jingles.

(He's going to kill her for this if it's the last thing he does.)

She cocks her head to one side. "Survey says... spanking with leather gloves. Mmm, excellent choice sir."

She tugs on the gloves, which are unlined and fit tightly, and steps back between his spread knees, reaching down to pinch and caress the back of one thigh. "So, how do you like it – hard and fast or kind of intermittent and along with a running commentary on how you've been very bad?" the bell jingles on the word 'bad' and he grits his teeth.

"Nailed it, huh?" she grins and takes a step back, angling her body to one side. She then brushes her hand against his left buttock before drawing her arm back and delivering a stinging smack that makes his flesh warm and tingle. "Oh," she drawls, "you are such a very, very naughty boy I don't know where to start." Another hard blow at a different angle. "Well, just yesterday you oppressed the good people of the Xinjiang province for kicks." She lands an unexpectedly hard blow on the other cheek. "Last Tuesday you used the citizens of Gotham as an ATM. Very, _very_ naughty." He grunts as she strikes the sensitive flesh of the crease at the top of his thigh.

For the next three minutes she continues to list off his crimes – some real and some made up, some truly heinous and some utterly trivial. "You turned the Falcones against the Maronis and started a full-scale mob war because you were bored." SMACK. "You made poor little Talon cry by telling him there's no easter bunny." SMACK. "You're banging your best pal's wife and two-timing her with a woman of ill-repute." SMACK.

She shakes out her hand and says, "you want more of the same I'm going to have to get a paddle." She steps closer, the heat of her body against his abdomen as she reaches around to pinch his abused flesh. His cock surges against her warm belly and the slippery softness of the silk shirt and he groans helplessly at the twin sensations of pleasure and discomfort.

"You like this even more than I thought you would," she comments, leaning down to kiss his belly, the coldness of the length of pearls against his skin makes him shiver. She grins and unwinds the strands from around her neck. "I think we can get rid of this now," she says, pulling loose the bow that fastened the ribbon and tossing it over her shoulder where it goes bang-jingle-jingle and rolls into a corner. She lifts the necklace over her head and then uses it to replace the pressure around his shaft: looping the strand of pearls around and around it, gripping the lot in both hands and lightly _squeezing_, rolling them up and down. Owlman pants and bucks his hips upwards suddenly feeling that he could come at any moment – the sensation is so totally beyond his control. She chuckles low in her throat and releases the pressure, rubbing the tip of his penis with the pad of her thumb and then sticking the digit in her mouth. "Mm-hm," she chides, "not yet, lover, I think we can still kick this up a notch."

As she pulls the necklace away and steps back over to the trunk he hears himself moan in disappointment. (He is going to kill her.)

The Jokester pulls off the gloves and goes for another rummage. "Ok, so, I don't know how you feel about, uh, toys but I thought..." she makes a 'hmm' sound of consideration and holds up a blue vibrator with a jellied finish and realistic vein-detailing.

"No."

"Ok, I'm not hearing the safe word, so I'm going to interpret your answer as 'that sounds like a spiffing idea Jackie, but could you possibly show me something that looks less like an actual penis because I find that threatening to my heterosexual self-image'." She continues to rummage, tossing items behind her as she goes (handcuffs, anal beads, feather duster, rubber chicken). "Aha," she holds up an egg-shaped object. "Clever little thing. Remote control variable settings!"

"NO."

"Oh, come on now, I really didn't expect you to be so small-minded, mister 'scourge of the demi-monde'," she says snapping on a pair of latex gloves. "I figure Lois is an assertive, adventurous kind of girl – she likes to break out the strap-on from time to time, am I right?"

He answers with a furious growl, twisting his arms in the cuffs. The unfamiliar sensations of vulnerability and humiliation are adding a perverse edge to his arousal.

"Oh sweetheart," she says, all false tenderness as she applies lubricant to her middle fingers and steps back between his thighs, "don't tell me I'm your _first_. Why that's just too romantic."

Another outburst of threats does nothing except make her pause and wince slightly. "Oh, so you mean I'm not your first? Did you experiment on your own, hmm? Were you a curious little thing?"

(Actually, it was a prostitute with acrylic nails, who unpleasantly surprised him during a blowjob – but there's no reason he would never tell the clown that.)

Her bare hand rubs his inner thigh as a slick finger pushes in; a long, slow relentless slide. All his nerve endings spark to life – and he could deal with it all if she would just... stop talking.

"Tell me something," she pulls out, faster than it went in, and he arches his spine. "You ever fantasise about it, hmm," she does that reflexive licking at her scars thing (and when did that become a turn on?) "the threesome – you, Superwoman and Ultraman?"

"Of course I fucking don't!"

"Come on, it'd be hot, in a twisted kind of way." She turns her finger as she pushes in again. "All that pent-up anger and resentment between you and Clark? Bedroom fireworks, I'm telling you. Can you take faster than this?"

Owlman grunts, which she takes as assent. She begins to work it steadily faster and deeper. His hips move in minute twitches and when he actually starts to push back she grins in triumph and her eyes raise to meet his. "Are you ready for this?"

After a firm push and a brief moment of discomfort, the toy slips in surprisingly easily.

He hears the sound of the gloves being removed. "Where'd I put that remote? Ah, ah. Hmm-mm. Pulse?" the sensation, when it arrives, is like a kick to the spine. He lets out an involuntary choking sound and presses his nails into his palms. "Too much? Whoops, my bad. Let's just start on low." the sensation diminishes to a steady buzz and he lets out a shaky breath.

The Jokester hikes up her skirt and climbs onto the rack, straddling his hips. When the contraption creaks she rolls her eyes from side to side. "I built this thing to take 350... saaay, have you put on a few pounds?"

"Have you?" he manages to grit out.

"Ha," she says drily, rucking the skirt up still further to show the top of her right stocking and taking out the condom tucked into the garter. Her tongue sticks out the corner of her mouth as she concentrates on unwrapping it and rolling it down on his cock (which hasn't gotten any less hard since she started tormenting him with fingers and an insertable gadget).

She scoots forward and he watches as she leans down, one hand planted on his chest, the other pulling open the buttons of the shirt, but leaving it still loosely tucked into her waistband. Her long and calloused fingers, stained with face paint as always, begin to circle her breasts, trailing over raised bumps of scar tissue on her sternum and occasionally darting up to pinch her nipples. She makes a low 'oh' sound in her throat and her eyelids flutter.

"I kind of want to kiss you right about now, but I get the feeling you might bite."

He wonders if she would believe him if he tried to persuade her otherwise. Her hand slips up beneath the skirt and he shifts as he watches her touch herself, rubbing fast, urgent circles with the palm of her hand against her pubic mound.

"You knooow I can... unh, I can feel the vibrations of that thing through your body. Seriously, fun for all the family. Oh, this is going to be _good_." She grasps him by the base of the shaft and slowly takes him in, using her hips to work it all the way. She seats herself on his pelvis with her hands atop of her thighs and gives a few experimental rocks and wiggles. "Oh yeah. Yeah. It's like riding one of those sybian machines." She opens one eye and adds: "uh... I imagine."

As she begins to move in earnest it soon builds to a pace must faster than he normally allows (in the past, when she was on top he always kept his hands on her hips to control the rhythm).

"You're trying really hard not to come aren't you?" she gasps and rocks down harder. "D- don't hang on on my account I'm uh, not gonna last much long–" she lets out a low, rumbling moan, mouth slackening and head lolling back. He feels her inner walls contracting around him, her hand slips down again as she rubs her clit to draw out the aftershocks. He grits his teeth and refuses to arch his spine, to give in to the combined stimulations both inside and around him.

She opens her eyes again and smirks, almost in disbelief. "You son-of-a-... you just won't give in, huh?" she leans forward and raises herself on her knees, letting his cock slip back out, He's so hard it aches, he can feel precome leaking steadily. She rolls the condom off in a swift, flourishing gesture like it's a sleight of hand and gives him a frustrated look.

"Look, look, I'll strike you a deal. I'll uncuff one," she holds up a finger, "yes, _one_, of your hands. But you have to promise to use it to get yourself off."

"What?"

"I'll help, of course." she makes a loose fist and performs an up and down gesture. "And you can come on my chest. Not the face, thanks, don't wanna ruin the make-up."

He wants to make a comment about the fact that her make-up was already ruined when she plastered it on, but something about the obscenity of the request makes his stomach tighten. He watches her trailing her fingertips across the exposed portion of her front, the translucent and blue-veined skin mottled with old and new scars. _God, he wants..._

"Yeah ok," he says, telling himself it's just a ruse to get his hand free. However, when she unshackles him, instead of doing anything useful his hand somehow goes straight to his dick, where her smaller, colder one joins it, grasping further up, squeezing and running the pad of her thumb over the slit. He groans raggedly, and no– he's not going to... he won't give her the satisfaction, he won't–

"That's it," she murmurs in a rich tone, her eyes crinkling at the corners and full of mischievous light, "give mommy a pearl necklace."

He comes hard, strands painting her chest in a messy arc and running down over both their hands. She laughs and says, "there, there, good boy," and he hears himself make a sound like a whimper as she pets his bare thigh soothingly.

After a moment she hops off the rack and he feels the vibrations stop. She disappears briefly and comes back with a warm, damp cloth, wiping at herself and then his hand and belly. He seems to fall asleep for a few seconds, and then suddenly her fingers are back inside him. He's beyond further arousal for the moment, but his nerve endings are awake and it feels weirdly enjoyable – maybe because all his muscles are truly relaxed now. She pulls the toy out very slowly, it seems to have a grip or ring on the base to allow easy extraction.

"So um, that was fun, right?" she says after a while. He opens his eyes to find she has withdrawn across the room again and is in the middle of pulling on an acid green trench coat, pulling the belt tight over the stained remnants of the other outfit. "No hard feelings, uh, pun not intended?"

"How are you going to play this, clown?" he asks, trying to keep the weariness out of his voice.

"Well... I'm going to leave this where you can just about reach it." She holds up the key to the cuffs and sets down on the very edge of the armrest. "Then... I'm going to run away very, _very_ fast. Before you figure out where I've hidden your clothes."

He grits his teeth and snarls at her and she flashes him a smile before leaping out of the window in a flurry of green fabric, her heels clanging on the ironwork as she scampers down the fire escape.

*~*~*

The Jokester is perched on the edge of a flat roof like an unusually colourful gargoyle. Below her in the alley Lucius Fox and one of his rivals are having an altercation. The actual conversation, so far as she can lip-read, is something about who owns what turf and therefore is owed a cut of the profits from the brothel and illegal casino thereon. She lost interest in it long ago and started making up her own dialogue.

"'Why that's a charming outfit you have on, Lucy old boy, really, gold lamé is so hard to wear but on you –why – it's tastefully understated.' 'Well, the pimp-chic look was all over the runways at Milan this season..' 'you don't say!'..."

A rush of air is the only warning she gets before the Owlman drops down by her side. He looks at her and then he looks down at the gangsters in the alley; obviously deciding that the latter is the most pressing issue, he spreads his wings and swoops to make their day just a little more filled with violence, misery and mayhem. When the hoarse screams die away and the two men limp out of sight, Owlman folds up the wad of bills – his reclaimed rightful profit – and tucks it into a compartment of his utility belt, then stares up at her.

"Get down here, I want to talk to you."

The Jokester points to herself and mouths 'who me?' in apparent surprise. _Hmm, how suicidal am I today?_ She shrugs and fires her grappling gun.

She touches down and lets the cord recoil before sticking the grappler back in a capacious coat pocket.

"Where've you been?"

The Jokester ducks the inevitable right-hook, side-swipe combo then feels foolish when she glances up to see he hasn't actually moved. "Um, hiding from your wrath?" She frowns and looks him over: Owlman has his hands on his hips and his head lowered – it's not a battle stance, more a 'we need to have a serious talk about our relationship' stance. _Oh hell no_, she thinks – if Owlsie starts up about how they need to discuss long term contraceptive solutions or – gods and angels forbid – his _feelings_, she will actually die laughing. And then he'll probably be mad.

"You think I'm still pissed about your little post-vacation surprise?"

"Look, I know it probably doesn't even make the top ten list of worst things we've done to each other, but I did violate our treaty of non-aggression in private domiciles. Also I kind of..." she makes a twirling gesture with one hand and continues in a rapid mutter: "insulted your manhood and impersonated your mother." She pauses and blinks up at him. "I seem to remember some idle talk about slaying me and using my hide as a bath mat. You're really not out for revenge?"

"Is that what you were trying to provoke?"

"No... no, I mean..." she scratches her head and shrugs, "would that be weird?"

Owlman crosses his arms over his chest. "You said it wasn't a nemesis thing."

"Yeah, I did say that," she agrees reluctantly, scuffing the ground with the toe of her boot. His gauntleted hands come to rest on her shoulders and she blurts out: "I just... I feel like a spark went, you know, when we admitted we weren't going to ultimately destroy each other. And what if one of us gets another arch-enemy, huh? What then!"

Owlman gives her the lip twitch which is his version of a smile. "You'll always be the biggest pain in my ass. I promise."

_Heh, literally or figuratively?_ "Yeah? Well, ok, I guess... how about I let you chase me downtown?" she waggles her eyebrows. "If you can keep up you'll find out where I'm living now."

Owlman slips an arm around her waist and pulls her up against his chest. She has time to gasp some air back into her lungs and before he lowers his head and kisses her, his stubble sharp against her scars, mouth hot and wet.

When the kiss breaks the Jokester says: "on second thoughts, up against this wall is totally fine with me. Yeah."

She slips the money she stole from his belt into a concealed inner pocket in her coat. _Mama needs a new gag-themed prototype weapon._


End file.
